


The Only Way Out Is Through

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Injury Recovery, M/M, Military Backstory, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes had been a soldier, and a damned good one, until everything went to hell behind enemy lines, and his squad was captured.  But it wasn’t the injuries he'd sustained or the long recovery that had changed his life forever.  It had been the man who'd rescued him, a savior he'd never forgotten.  And one he still hadn't had the courage to find and properly thank.  </p><p>Until today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Way Out Is Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadedink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedink/gifts).



> An alternate modern/military AU variation on Steve rescuing Bucky from his incarceration behind enemy lines as a belated birthday fic for the BFF.

Sergeant James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes was not nervous. He was a former Delta sniper, the baddest of the bad, the elite of the elite. He was calm, cool, and collected under pressure, he was as steady as a fucking mountain, and his shit was _always_ squared away. He'd once been part of one of the most feared and respected military units in the world, and he had all the skills and training and experience to back up every single claim. He'd gone on missions all over the world to some of the most inaccessible and dangerous areas imaginable, and had never once blinked.

Nerves were not in his DNA.

A deceptively soft hand lowered over his, stilled the twitching. "It's okay," Natasha said, and Bucky half-twisted in his seat to meet concerned green eyes.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "I'm frosty. Promise."

But looking at her – and not the tidy-looking, two-story house just outside the car window – made him feel better. He had no idea how he'd lucked into Natasha Romanov, but he was thankful for it, no matter the reason. Mind like a steel trap, a fierce fighter, and able to keep her head when the bullets started flying – and those were the least of her good qualities. She was also the best friend he'd ever had.

She gave him another searching look, then nodded. "You don't need to do this, you know."

She'd been saying some variation of those words since he’d had the idea in the first place. And again right before they'd made the drive out to Long Island. "Yeah, I kinda do."

"Well, in that case..." She leaned over the gear shift, pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Go get 'em, tiger. I'll be here waiting for you whenever you're done."

He nodded again, held his breath for three slow beats, then let it out slow and even like he used to do before taking his shot. A single exhale to let out the tension and nerves and tune out every distraction. A single breath to focus on the mission and the target. And while this wasn't a mission and the man inside the house wasn't a target, the breath still helped. Steadied him in a way that nothing else could.

He made his painstakingly careful way to the house, took in the manicured, neatly-mowed lawn and the riot of flowers all crammed into a small bed of dirt just to the left of the steps. He wondered if Steve had planted them or if it had been Peggy, and marveled yet again at all he _didn't_ know about the man with whom he'd shared the most intimate and intense experience of his life. How much he didn't know about the goddamn _hero_ (not a word he used lightly) who'd saved his life and the lives of so many other men, and then vanished like a ghost once they'd all reached a safe extraction point.

Bucky reached in his jacket pocket, clutched his dog tags in his fist like a lifeline for a handful of heartbeats, and then shuffled up the steps. Rapped once on the door and waited, sharp gaze taking in the weather-beaten wood of the porch, the fading paint and trim around the windows, the houses on either side, the high fences that separated each property. He wondered if he'd always do perimeter sweeps, if he'd always check the landscape for threats, or if he'd one day be able to let that part of his life go and see only the beauty in his surroundings without first determining whether said surroundings were safe.

He was home. He'd _made_ it. Thanks to Steve Rogers.

Then the door swung open and the man himself was standing there, just as big and blond and imposing as Bucky remembered, wearing a thin black tank top and a ratty pair of sweats, bare feet peeking from under the hems.

The blue eyes Bucky remembered for their composure and concern narrowed slightly before widening. "Holy shit. Sergeant Barnes? Bucky, is that you?"

Bucky nodded and lifted his hand in a small wave. He was proud as hell of himself that his fingers didn't tremble even a little bit. "Hey, Steve."

"Holy...uh, wow. This is...did you...you're out of the hospital?" Steve stepped onto the porch, pulled the front door closed behind him. "You look...” He gestured at Bucky. "You look good."

"I feel good. _Better_ ," Bucky corrected, the smile coming a little easier now that Steve was real and in front of him, not just a few scribbled lines on a get well card or a soothing voice in his too-frequent dreams. "Got out of Walter Reed a few months back. Been doing the whole rehab thing, trying to get to a hundred percent."

And maybe he'd never get all the way there – the nerve damage in his arm and hand might never fully heal and he'd probably always have a slight limp from all the shrapnel they'd dug out of his hip and thigh, but he still had his arm and he was upright and mobile, and more importantly, he was alive. It was a damn sight better than everyone else in his squad. 

"That's great." Steve's face and voice softened. "I'm really glad to hear that."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't be here at all if you hadn't come along when you did –"

Steve's shoulders immediately pulled back to parade attention. He pushed a hand through short hair. "You don't have to –"

"Thank you," Bucky said over him, because if he let Steve finish, he knew he'd never get out what he came here to say. "I know you don't wanna hear it, alright, I know you were just doing your job, and I know I'd feel the exact same way if I was in your shoes and someone said what I'm saying to you. But you still saved my life out there and I never got to say thank you and to tell you how grateful I am. So...this is me doing it. I’m more grateful than I can begin to even tell you."

"Okay," Steve said quietly, still holding himself far too stiff. "Okay."

"I know I shouldn't have just shown up on your steps like this, and maybe I coulda done this over the phone, but –"

"It's fine." Steve took a breath, seemed to visibly pull himself together. "Just...things are a little hectic around here right now, is all. It's fine that you came. I'm glad you did. Glad I got to see you with my own eyes."

"Okay." But, Bucky didn't relax. Steve still looked far too uncomfortable. Which, after everything they'd shared and everything that had happened was...well, maybe it wasn't that unexpected. Steve probably wasn't in any hurry to relive that day any more than Bucky himself was. 

"How, um, how's Peggy doing? You ever get around to popping the question?" he asked, hoping the change of subject might help get them both on better footing. He still remembered all of Steve's stories about his firecracker of a girl, and the love and affection in Steve's voice when he spoke of her.

An odd look passed over Steve's face, there and gone in a moment. "She's...she's good. It's...everything's good. Thanks for asking."

"Okay...um...that's, uh. Good." Bucky scuffed his boots on the wood. His skin felt far too small across his body, itched all over. He pulled his jacket closer around his chest, even though the breeze was pretty warm. "Well, uh, I'll let you get back to your day. I just...I just wanted to pay my respects."

"Thank you." Steve stuck out his hand, formal. Impersonal. "You take care of yourself, alright."

Bucky took the offered hand with his good one, the shake firm, focused, and very much a goodbye. "You too, Steve."

Steve smiled – that same small, half-smile Bucky remembered from what seemed like a lifetime ago – and dropped his hand. "I'll see you around."

"Yeah, sure." Bucky tried returning the smile, but it felt forced. Wrong. He hated leaving on such an off note, but he knew how to take a hint. He headed slowly back down the steps, shoulders hunched, and got halfway across the lawn before something made him stop. He turned and called, "Hey, Steve!"

Steve paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Uh, congrats. You know, on your medal."

Steve's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Yeah, you too."

"Mine was nothing."

"No," Steve replied, as serious and solemn as church. "It _wasn't_ nothing. What you did out there...what you endured...it wasn't nothing."

"If you say so." God, this was embarrassing. He was embarrassing himself. He needed to get his shit together and get right and take the goddamn hint. It was past time he gathered the tattered remnants of his pride and made an honorable retreat. 

"Well, bye, Steve." He was congratulating himself on the evenness of his tone when he heard Steve's voice behind him.

"Hey, Buck, wait up." 

Steve trotted down the steps and jogged across the lawn to stand in front of him. Bucky stayed where he was, patient, but Steve didn’t say anything for longest time. Just stood there, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t figure out where to plant himself. Then he swallowed, tugged at the hem of his tank top. His gaze kept flitting from Bucky to some point behind him, then back again. Every nervous action was so unlike Bucky's memories of the cool, unflappable soldier who'd rescued him and all those other men from that hellhole of a compound.

"I lied," Steve finally said.

Bucky blinked. "Come again?"

"I lied," Steve repeated. His mouth was a thin, pressed line. "That day. When I...when we were holed up in that little shack and waiting for dark to try and slip out..."

Bucky remembered. He didn't think he'd ever forget anything about that day. Every single moment, every breath, every shot, every drop of blood he'd seen and shed, were permanently seared into his brain, ever bright and ever horrific. The _only_ memories he had that weren't filled with death and agony were due to Steve.

"Lied about what?" he asked. They'd talked about so many things in those dark, desperate hours, waiting and hiding, with Steve trying anything and everything he could to keep Bucky conscious and focused on something other than his injuries and the pain.

"Me and Peggy. We aren't...we weren't together." Those ocean blue eyes finally focused on him, steady and full of regret. "I mean, we _were_ , but we broke it off before I re-upped for my last tour. We're still friends, but we haven't been a thing in a long time."

"I don't...why lie about it?" It didn't make any sense. He and Steve hadn't known each other, they weren't friends. They'd been thrown together under the most extraordinary of circumstances, but that day was all they'd ever had between them.

"You were going into shock. I had to keep you talking, keep you engaged and..." Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. The stubble that was creeping in on his jaw was a dark shade of blond. "I was running out of things to talk about and she popped into my head and you really seemed to respond to her so I...I just rolled with it."

The sun overhead burnished Steve's hair to a light gold. Bucky remembered – vividly – the coarse feel of it under his fingers. "Shit, Steve, I spent all this time thinking –" He shook his head, tried to keep his body steady, his voice steady. He was a mountain. "I spent _months_ , y'know, feeling so guilty about what happened and thinking maybe that's why you never came to visit me –"

"Buck, no. No, I swear, that wasn’t it." Steve shuffled closer. He had the saddest look on his face. "I got sent to Iraq, then Syria right after. If I'd been Stateside, I would have come to see you. I swear to God."

"They sent you _back_ out there?" Bucky recoiled like he'd been shot all over again. "Jesus Christ, Steve. _Jesus_." He couldn't keep the horror from his voice. How could anyone have sent Steve back into combat after everything he'd been through that day?

"It's alright. I mean, it's what I signed up for." Steve shrugged like it was no big deal, but Bucky knew better. He _remembered_ how Steve had shivered against him, how terrified they'd both been that they were going to die together in some rusted out shack behind enemy lines in some foreign country fighting an unwinnable war against an opponent who would never stop hunting them.

Bile rose in his throat. "Please tell me you didn't re-up."

"I didn't," Steve replied, and Bucky's shoulders sagged in relief. "I just got out – for good – a couple of weeks ago, actually."

"Good."

"Um, look." Steve cupped the back of his neck, dropped his lashes to half-mast. His cheeks were slightly pink. "You maybe...do you want to come in for a minute? Maybe talk? I mean, really talk? My place it's...well, I'm still unpacking and trying to get organized, but...I'd like it if you stayed. If you wanted to stay."

"I..." He wanted to, with every fiber of his being. But there was Nat to think about, and she'd already done far too much for him lately. He couldn't ask her for more. It wouldn't be right. "Uh...I've got, I mean, Natasha's waiting..."

"Oh." Steve's face fell, then he stepped back, a mortified look on his face. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. You had plans, of course you did, I didn't mean to...I mean, I just thought it'd be nice to...it was stupid –"

"Steve. _Steve_ ," Bucky reached out to put a hand on Steve's forearm, his turn to provide comfort, to be that steady rock. Steve's skin was dry and so warm, the warmest thing Bucky'd felt in months. "Hey, it wasn't stupid. I _want_ to stay and catch up with you on everything. And I don't – I mean, Nat and I don't have plans after. But she _did_ give me a ride over here since I can't drive yet and –"

"Oh. Well, I can drive you home later. If you wanted."

The look Steve was giving him was so hopeful. Bucky was sure his own face had that same look. "I'd like that. Give me two minutes?"

"Sure." Then Steve smiled. "Take your time. I mean, I live here, so it's not like I'm going anywhere."

Bucky laughed, just a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess you do."

Steve nodded towards his front door. "Just, uh, come on in. When you're done, I mean. Take your time."

"Sure," Bucky agreed, and watched as Steve walked back inside the house.

He rapped on the driver's side window and waited until Natasha looked up from her phone. She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail and her look was open, curious, as she lowered the window. "Anything wrong?" she asked.

"No." He clasped his hands together, held tight. The urge to reach inside his pocket for his dog tags was almost overwhelming. But he couldn't keep using them as a crutch. "No, everything's...he, uh, he wants me to stay awhile, and talk. Said he'd drive me home after."

She studied him in silence for a long, telling moment. "Is that a good idea?"

"I don't know," he answered, because the truth was, he didn't have a clue what was right or wrong for him these days. "But I don't...I don't want to leave."

"I guess that's your answer, then." She reached out, stroked light fingers over his hands. "Call me if you need me. We passed a 7-11 four blocks east, so if you need to, you wait there for me. I'll come get you."

"I don't think it'll come to that." But he appreciated that she was looking out for him like always. "And it was five blocks, east by southeast. You're slipping."

"No, just testing you," she said, with a smile. 

"I'm still me, you know."

"I do know. But who you are has changed, and that's not a bad thing."

"Yeah, I guess." He was still trying to figure out this new him, this civilian him who had no orders to follow and no chain of command to fall back on. He was still getting used to going by Mr. Barnes, not Sergeant, sir, yessir. But the human body and the human mind, he was learning, were highly adaptable, and he'd always been a quick study. He'd get the hang of it in time. Something he had plenty of these days.

"You have your phone on you?"

He patted his jacket pocket. "Fully charged. Now get out of here, go enjoy the rest of your day."

"I will." She lifted her chin, and he leaned down, pressed a light kiss to her lips, and used the proximity to murmur a thank you he knew she'd pretend not to hear. But he also knew she'd appreciate it all the same.

"Call or text me later, let me know how it went," she said, when he straightened back up.

"Promise."

He waited until she'd driven away, then walked back across the lawn and up the steps. This time he walked through the front door without knocking. "Hey, Steve," he called, unsure of where he was supposed to go. "I'm here."

"In the kitchen! It's just down the hall."

He scanned the airy, yet cozy-looking living room in one quick sweep. Fresh coats of some off-white paint, a nice big sectional sofa, a monster-big TV mounted on the wall, and boxes were strewn everywhere, most of them halfway unpacked and spilling out contents. Looked like Steve hadn't been kidding about the house being in disarray.

Bucky headed down the hall, the walls painted a cheerful light green, and stepped into an absolute dream of a kitchen with all steel appliances and a massive island in the middle. Steve was at one of the counters chopping up something, the muscles of his back and shoulders thrown into sharp relief by the thin material of the tank top. 

Then he turned his head, threw a small, welcoming smile Bucky's way. "Pull up a seat. I'm just fixing up something for dinner. You hungry? I thought I'd do a seafood bisque. You still like Cajun food, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Love it," Bucky replied, with a pleased smile. "I didn't know you remembered that."

"I remember everything about what we talked about," Steve replied, as he bent his head back to his task. "I always meant to ask you for your grandmother's chicken paprikash recipe – you made it sound like ambrosia."

"That's because it totally is." Bucky pulled out one of the stools surrounding the island, and watched Steve work – he was mincing garlic and onions with quick, professional-looking cuts. "I'd normally offer to help, but I'm not quite ready yet for a knife. Almost. Getting steadier every day."

"Hey, you look _really_ good," Steve told him, with a quick, but fond glance. "Better than I was expecting, but you Delta boys were always overachievers."

"Had to be to keep you frogmen in line and on your toes."

"We did what we could," Steve said, with a modest shrug that spoke volumes. "Your hair's getting kinda long, though."

"Yeah, I'm trying it out for awhile." Bucky patted at the small, stubby ponytail he'd pulled it into before he'd left his apartment. "I just...wanted to leave all that shit behind. I mean, not that I wasn't proud to serve or that I'd turned my back on my brothers, but..."

"You needed to make your own space," Steve said, and nodded. "I get it, man, I really do."

Bucky knew it wasn't just lip service. "I may chop it all off at some point, but right now it works."

"Looks good on you," Steve commented. He set the garlic and onion aside in a mixing bowl, and moved to the celery. "So, um, what're you up to these days? You mentioned rehab."

"Yeah, three times a week on just the shoulder and hip, then PT four times a week to make sure I'm not getting soft anywhere else. It's fucking kicking my ass worse than OTC ever did," Bucky said. "But, uh, actually, I just got my GI Bill all squared away and I'm starting at NYU in a few weeks in, uh, the summer program, then I'm going full-time come fall. Gonna finally finish up my linguistics degree."

"That's great, Bucky." Steve's smile could have lit up the entire room. "I'm really proud of you."

It was impossible to say why those simple words sent such a warm glow through him, so Bucky didn't even try. He just rolled with it. He'd been learning to do that, too, to just let things _be_ , and not overanalyze them to death. "Yeah, I'm pretty stoked. New start, being around new people, I think it'll be good for me."

"Sounds pretty good from where I'm standing."

"What about you?" Bucky asked. "Any ideas on what you want to do now that you're a free man, so to speak?"

Steve added the celery to the bowl, then went to the fridge and pulled out a couple of bell peppers and two bottles of Summer Shandy. "You want one?"

"Sure, yeah." He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the taste of beer until the first time he'd been able to have one since finishing off the last of his numerous medications after all the surgeries. It had been the best thing he'd ever tasted, hands down.

Steve popped the tops and handed one bottle to Bucky. He turned back to the cutting board, started chopping again. "I'm not sure yet what I want to do. I'm not interested in going into private security or threat analysis, or being a numbers cruncher... I actually thought about going to work at the nursery down the road. The owner took a shine to me when I was in there the other week buying my lawn fertilizer and flower beds."

"You planted the ones I saw outside?"

"Sure did." Steve finished the peppers and started melting butter in a heavy skillet for the roux. "I like gardening. It's soothing."

Bucky could see that. Fresh air, doing something with one's hands, seeing a tangible result at the end...shit, he might take up gardening himself once he was back to full strength. "That why you bought this place?"

"No, actually. I bought it a couple of years ago when I thought me and Peggy –" Steve's gaze skittered away from Bucky and back to the skillet. "Well, it's a nice neighborhood and the school district has a good reputation. I was just away so much that I never had a chance to unpack until now."

"I can relate." Bucky still wasn't fully settled into his apartment all the way. He'd gone from active combat to an extended hospital stay to a rehab facility before he even remembered he hadn't lived off-base in years and that he needed to find a place to bunk down that wasn't moving back in with his folks. (In that avenue, like so many others, Natasha had come through for him with flying colors. He owed her more than he'd ever be able to repay.)

"It's a nice house," he said, looking around again. "What I've seen of it looks nice."

"I'll give you the nickel tour after dinner if you're up for it."

"Sure. That'd be great."

They talked of light things while Steve finished cooking and later while eating at the table in the screened-in back patio. They ranged from subject to subject – how the Mets were looking so far (the answer was, they both sighed, terrible), who the Islanders could get in free agency for next season, books they'd been reading, TV shows they were getting caught up on – and it was good. Easy. Just two ex-soldiers shooting the shit over an amazing home-cooked meal (the bisque wouldn't have been out of place at any restaurant in the French Quarter). Bucky honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd had a more relaxing night. But then, conversation with Steve had come easily when they'd been holed up in that shack, too. It was like they'd always been friends, from that first hectic moment when Steve had rescued him from –

"Hey, Buck. You okay, man?”

It took him a minute to bring Steve back into focus. "What?” he asked. It sounded like he was speaking through a tunnel - distorted and odd.

Steve gestured at him. "You, uh, you were zoning out pretty hard there for a minute. You looked..." 

"Yeah, sorry." Bucky picked up his beer bottle and prayed Steve couldn't see how much his hands were trembling. "For a second I was back in that room –"

"I'm sorry –"

"You know I thought I was actually dead when I saw you." Bucky ducked his head, wished his hair was free so he could hide behind it. "Thought they'd actually put a bullet in my head and I was in the afterlife. You looked like a fucking archangel, y'know, all big and badass and dispensing righteous justice."

"I was scared to death," Steve admitted, his voice so low it barely stirred the air between them. "I knew going in that it was a suicide mission, but I had to try. They were holding so many of you guys...and Jesus, when I saw you on that table, what they'd done to you, what they'd put you through..."

"They recognized my Delta patch," Bucky said. His voice matched Steve's. It was like they were in a confessional. "They thought that meant I had intel on certain operations, that I knew where certain bases were."

"I wish I'd gotten there sooner."

"Hey." Bucky laid his hand over Steve's, squeezed as hard as he was able. Granted, the grip wasn't much, but that wasn’t the point. "You did everything you could. No one you rescued from the compound has anything but gratitude for you and what you were able to do, alright? You got us all home."

Steve flipped his hand over, laced their fingers together like it was second nature. Like they did this all the time instead of this being the first. Steve's palm was dry and a little rough, so different from the softness he was used to feeling when he held hands with a girl. "If I'd had a better exfil plan, maybe me and you wouldn't have been stuck like we were for so long. Maybe you'd have the full use of your hand and –"

"That _wasn't_ your fault," Bucky stated, as firm and certain as he knew how, every bit of Delta training bleeding through. "We could sit here and blame people all night, from our chain of command to Congress to ourselves for enlisting in the first place, and it wouldn't change a fucking thing. We made the choices we made. The past is over and done with."

"Is it?" Steve asked him, with a sad, lost look. "Is it ever really?"

"I don't know, man, I really don't. But I'm not about to sit on my ass and wallow in the could haves or should haves. I'm gonna get through this the only way I know how. By planting one foot in front of the other and looking my enemies right in the eye and daring 'em to come at me. Even if the enemy's me."

"You think you could teach me how to do that?" Steve asked, and Bucky knew, somewhere deep in the marrow of his bones, that there weren't too many people who could ever claim they saw Steve Rogers sounding uncertain and anxious.

A swell of pride that he was one of the trusted few rose in him. "Steve, I'll do any damn thing you want me to."

Steve smiled, small, but grateful-looking. "Right now, I'd like to show you around the house, if you're up for it."

"Sure. I've even got a nickel."

"Nah," Steve laughed. "I think I can give it to you for free."

They set the dirty dishes to soak in the sink (Bucky'd offered to clean up – dishes he could do, even with his bum hand – but Steve just waved him off, said it was fine, he was a guest and guests didn't clean where he came from), and Steve took him through each room, told him a little about his plans for each one. 

"You've got a good eye," Bucky commented. "Can't wait to see it all put together."

"Thanks. If you're bored one day, you're welcome to come by, help me paint and hang up art."

"Right now, that actually sounds fun." 

"Yeah, I guess it would be," Steve commented. "It's crazy, isn't it, all the weird domestic shit you miss?"

"Like taking out the trash and sweeping the kitchen floor," Bucky added, following Steve up the stairs to the second level. 

"Mowing the lawn and yanking up weeds," Steve said, and led him into one of the bedrooms. "Thinking about turning this room into an office, maybe. I don’t really have any family since my mom passed, so it’s not like I need a guest room or anything."

Bucky remembered that from before, when the subject of families had come up. Remembered how similar their stories were, how they'd both agreed the guys in their unit had become their family because they hadn’t really had anyone else. It was just Bucky and his folks these days, and they'd moved upstate years ago. "Well, it’s not like you don’t have a pretty nice sofa if any of your friends come out to visit," he said.

"It is really big, huh?” Steve chuckled, then sidestepped yet another box. "Seriously, I am sorry about the mess. It's taken me longer than I thought to figure out where I want everything."

"I still haven't unpacked all the way myself, and I've been in my apartment for almost three months," Bucky admitted. "Doesn't quite seem like home yet." 

Home had been the barracks, home had been shitty outposts at bases all over the world. Home had been the back of a humvee, the inside of a Black Hawk. Home had been the press of his rifle against his cheek while lying prone on a rooftop and keeping an eye down below for any threats. 

Steve nodded, like he could read Bucky's thoughts. "I still wake up at the crack of dawn and roll into my pushups and planks."

"Same," Bucky admitted. "I can't quite do as many of 'em these days, but, well, I guess some habits die pretty hard."

"You, uh..." Steve made a small gesture his way. "I mean, you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but would you...can I _see_ that you're alright? I mean –"

"Yeah, of course," Bucky replied, already unzipping his jacket. "Jesus, Steve, you don't have to act so nervous. You stitched me up, man, you had my blood all over you..."

"It's still not exactly...I mean, right, this is weird. I'm being weird." Steve shook his head. "Forget I asked, okay –"

"I don't mind. I really don't." Bucky shrugged out of the jacket and started to pull his t-shirt over his head. "Trust me, when you've spent as much time as I have in hospitals and rehab centers, you lose any modesty you ever had. It's not like the tube they put in your dick to help you pee gets there by itself, y'know."

"No, I know, it's just... My God." 

Steve made a wounded noise, low in his throat, as soon as Bucky's shirt hit the carpet. He reached out, slow, careful, like he was afraid Bucky would disappear if he moved too fast, and traced feather-light fingers over the angry, knotted scar tissue on Bucky's shoulder and spider-webbing along his chest. " _Christ,_ Bucky, I'm so... I wish..."

" _Don't_." He put his hand over Steve's, flattened it along the scars so Steve could feel the raised welts and rough skin. He didn't want anyone, especially not Steve, to ever treat him like he was breakable. "I'm proud of every single one of these marks because it means I did my job. I defended the man next to me to the best of my ability and was willing to lay my life on the line to make sure they were safe. They're badges of honor."

He didn't mention that the scars on his thigh and hip were even worse, and that his entire body ached like a motherfucker when it got cold or damp out. Steve was carrying enough weight on those broad shoulders of his. Bucky had no need or wish to add to that burden.

"Badges of honor," Steve repeated, and let out a harsh, wet breath.

"They're proof that I'm still here, nothing more, nothing less," Bucky added, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Okay?"

"Yeah, okay." But Steve didn't look like he really believed what he was saying.

"You got me out." Bucky pressed Steve's hand over his heart so he could _feel_ the truth of what Bucky was telling him. "I'm here, I'm alive. I'm home – we all made it home, thanks to you. You did your job, too."

"Thank you." Steve swallowed, throat working. His eyes had a telltale sheen to them. His hand trembled under Bucky's. "Thank you."

Bucky knew - or thought he did - what Steve was really saying. And, even though this was so far out of his comfort zone it may as well have been another planet, he didn't care. He'd never been one for putting his emotions close to the surface or showing perceived weakness, but the one thing he'd learned during this long, hard road to recovery was that crying _wasn't_ something to be ashamed of, and admitting you were in pain and needed help wasn't a sign of weakness.

But even knowing that, even believing it with every fiber of his being, it was still the hardest thing in the world for him to look Steve in the eyes and ask his next question. "Can I...you mind if I ask you something?"

Steve shook his head, but didn't reply. He wiped at the tears slipping down his cheeks with his free hand. He'd left the other one right where it was, resting over Bucky's heart, like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of the beats by touch alone. 

"Why? Why'd you do it? You know, when you...when we, uh..." He faltered, gave a helpless shrug. It was the only thing he could never figure out in all the time he’d spent alone with his thoughts while in the hospital. The one thing he kept circling back to, over and over, a puzzle he'd never been able to put together in any way that made sense. It still didn't make sense.

"I..." Steve stopped. Closed his eyes. Exhaled, slow and even, like he was trying to calm himself, put his thoughts together. "I thought we were dying," he finally said. His voice cracked on the last word. "And I thought..."

He opened his eyes, and the entire world stopped. Everything faded except for the way Steve was looking at him, like he was lost and Bucky was his only chance of finding his way home.

"I thought...if we were going to die because I made a bad call...I wanted us both to have at least one last memory that wasn't death or bloodshed or pain. And I know I fucked up your trust and I know it was selfish of me, but it was the only thing I could think of."

"I'm glad you did," Bucky whispered. It seemed that it was his turn to start trembling. "Sometimes I think that kiss...it was the only thing that got me through any of it."

"I felt so terrible after," Steve confessed. "Like I'd taken advantage...I mean, I'm not...I never thought of another guy like that..."

"Same here," Bucky replied. His heart was pounding, his lungs felt far too small for his chest, and adrenaline was pumping through his veins, making everything seem brighter. Sharper. Like he was poised on the edge of a cliff, with only a small step between safety and the never-ending fall. 

But Bucky was never one for playing it safe. Life – _living_ – was about taking a chance. About taking that step and trusting that whatever happened next would be worth it in the end. 

"And I still don't think of other men like that," he added, because this – his honesty and his need – was all he had in the end that was truly his. "But I never could get your taste out of my mind."

"Me neither," Steve said, and later on, Bucky could never remember which one of them moved first, but between one breath and the next, Steve's arms were wrapped around his back and his own hands were in Steve's hair, a year's worth of pent up tension and want bleeding into that first desperate kiss.

Everything was different now – they were both different people in a completely different set of circumstances – but Steve tasted the same. His lips felt the same. The coarse texture of Steve's hair felt the same. And the hummingbird-fast flutter of Bucky's pulse as their tongues slid together nice and slick was also exactly the same. Steve's hands were warm and firm, rougher than a woman's touch, but it didn't seem to matter, not if the heavy throb of desire coursing through him was anything to go by. He wanted those hands touching him everywhere, wanted to do some exploring of his own. 

For the first time in over a year, he felt like himself, felt at home once again in his own skin. He felt like _Bucky_ – like the stranger who'd taken over his body for so long had vacated the premises and allowed him to finally take back the reins.

When they eventually parted, both of them sucking in desperately needed air, Bucky waited for one of them to make a tactical retreat, to brush off what just happened as an aberration. Waited for things to turn awkward, for the stammering apologies, for the sense of shame to come crashing in. Instead, Steve just smiled at him with red, kiss-swollen lips and ocean blue eyes and lowered his hands to the waistband of Bucky's jeans. Bucky had stubble burn on his cheeks and chin, there was a hard, muscled body pressed tight against his, and everywhere Steve was touching him burned white-hot.

"I have no fucking idea what I'm doing," Steve confessed. He sounded like he couldn’t be happier about it.

Bucky laughed, inched in even closer. He felt absolutely euphoric. "Welcome to the club."

"If you want to tap out, I understand."

"I don't."

"Me neither," Steve said, and then they were kissing again, slow and sweet. They had all the time in the world now, and they both wanted to make the most of it. 

  
Three months later, when Bucky's lease was up on his apartment, he packed up his gear and moved into the warm, welcoming house with the riotous array of flowers in the front yard and the bed that was easily big enough for two. And yeah, maybe they were moving pretty fast and maybe the people they were before would have used a little more discretion, been more cautious, but both Steve and Bucky were done waiting. They'd both learned the hard way that every moment was precious. That life was for the living, and that the fall was always worth it if there was someone with you on the way down.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [stephrc79](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stephrc79) for the beta & the help with the summary. All remaining mistakes are solely mine.
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)


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